RIDERS  OF  THE  STARS 


UC-NRLF 


ill 


HENRY   HERBERT  KNIBBS 


).  J). 


RIDERS  OF  THE  STARS. 

SUNDOWN   SLIM.    Illustrated. 

SONGS  OF  THE  OUTLANDS.    Talesofthe 

Hoboes  and  Other  Verse. 
OVERLAND   RED.    A  Tale  of  the  Moonstone 

Canon  Trail.     Illustrated  in  Color. 
STEPHEN    MARCH'S   WAY.     Illustrated. 
LOST   FARM    CAMP.     Illustrated. 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 


Riders  of  the  Stars 


Riders  of  the  Stars 

A   BOOK   OF  WESTERN   VERSE 

By 

Henry  Herbert  Rnibbs 


Boston  and  New  York 
Houghton  Mifflin  Company 

d&e  fftoer?ite  pretfjei  CambriDge 


1916 


COPYRIGHT,   1916,   BY  HENRY  HERBERT  KNIBBS 
ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 

Published  October  iQib 


TO  R.  F. 

M en  know  him  for  sterling  worth, 

For  vigor  and  pride  and  wit; 
He  who  girdled  the  glowing  earth 

And  fashioned  a  song  of  it. 
Men  know  him  of  many  things 

Master,  in  hall  and  mart, 
But  I,  yea,  I  know  the  voice  that  sings 

Deep  in  his  steadfast  heart. 

His  shield  to  the  world  I  know, 

And  his  toil-worn  coat  of  mail, 
The  clear,  keen  eye  with  the  battle  glow 

When  hazard  or  wrong  assail; 
Proud  is  my  heart  that  I 

See  more  than  the  passing  see 
In  his  love  for  the  magic  western  sky 

And  the  mountains'  wizardry; 

Rifle  and  rope  and  spur, 
Trail  and  the  wayside  fire; 

Soul  of  the  true  adventurer 
Singing  his  heart's  desire 

E'en  while  the  great  wheels  roll 
Ceaseless  and  grim  and  slow; 


To  R.  F. 

But  the  gods  of  gold  may  not  grind  his  soul 
Into  the  dust  below. 

Fetters  that  bind  his  hands 

He  snaps  with  a  magic  word, 
As  fearless.,  frank,  and  immune  he  stands 

Singing  of  trail  and  herd, 
Night,  and  the  Southern  stars, 

Dawn  and  a  land  of  gold ! 
Leading  souls  through  their  prison-bars, 

Bidding  their  eyes  behold! 

Men  know  him  for  sterling  worth, 

For  vigor  and  pride  and  wit 
To  challenge  tears  or  the  leap  of  mirth 

As  he  strikes  to  the  soul  of  it. 
Men  know  him  for  many  things; 
•  I,  standing  alone,  apart, 
*Know  that  an  unknown  poet  sings 

Deep  in  his  steadfast  heart. 


Contents 


THE  SHALLOWS  OF  THE  FORD .      3 

RIDERS  OF  THE  STARS 6 

LARGO .    10 

I    CHANCE 12 

MESA  MAGIC        .  16 

THE  DESERT .      .18 

LAST  OF  THE  CAVALIERS         ...      *      .      .      .      .    21 

THE  FAR  AND  LONELY  HILL  ...      .      .      .      .      .23 

THE  RANGER  AND  THE  BEAR        .      .      .      .      .      .      .25 

SUNLIGHT        .      4   "  *      .      •    ,.      •      •      •      •      •      .28 

THAT  ROAN  CAYUSE  .       .      .      .      ...      .      .      .31 

THE  OUTCAST       ...      .      .      . 34 

THE  KILTER  . *      .      .      .      .36 

APTJNI  OYIS    .      . *•    .      .      .      .38 

THE  PE.\CE  OF  THE  HILLS 40 

IN  THE  VALLEY 41 

THE  QUEST     ........     ~.      „      .      .    43 

THE  GLORIOUS  FOOL 45 

THE  TRAMP *      ....    47 

TRAIL-TO-GLORY   ..      .      .      .      .      ....      .49 

YEABO'S  ADVENTURE 51 

THE  SHEEP  54 


Contents 


EH,  JOHNNY-JO  ? 56 

TOBY 58 

THAT  INSIDE  SONG 61 

THE  OLD-TIMER 63 

THE  FIGHTING  PARSON 65 

ROMANCE 67 

I  KNEW  A  BOY 69 

BRAVES  OF  THE  HUNT 71 

THE  TRAIL-MAKERS 74 

IDLE  NOON 77 

THE  COWBOYS'  BALL  .      .      .      ,      ,      *      .      ...  79 

PEARL.  OP  THE  ATOLLS      .      .    •'.     -.      .      .      .      ,      .  81 

For  permission  to  reprint  certain  of  these  poems  the  author's  thanks 
are  due  to  the  Popular  Magazine,  the  American  Magazine,  The  Country 
Gentleman,  Smith's  Magazine,  and  the  Los  Angeles  Graphic. 


Riders  of  the  Stars 


THE  SHALLOWS  OF  THE  FORD 

DID  you  ever  wait  for  daylight  when  the  stars  along  the 

river 
Floated  thick  and  white  as  snowflakes  in  the  water  deep 

and  strange, 
Till  a  whisper  through  the  aspens  made  the  current  break 

and  shiver 

As  the  frosty  edge  of  morning  seemed  to  melt  and  spread 
and  change? 

Once  I  waited,  almost  wishing  that  the  dawn  would  never 

find  me; 

Saw  the  sun  roll  up  the  ranges  like  the  glory  of  the  Lord; 
Was  about  to  wake  my  partner  who  was  sleeping  close 

behind  me, 

When  I  saw  the  man  we  wanted  spur  his  pony  to  the 
ford. 

Saw  the  ripples  of  the  shallows  and  the  muddy  streaks  that 

followed, 
As  the  pony  stumbled  toward  me  in  the  narrows  of  the 

bend; 
Saw  the  face  I  used  to  welcome,  wild  and  watchful,  lined 

and  hollowed; 

And  God  knows  I  wished  to  warn  him,  for  I  once  had 
called  him  friend. 

3 


Riders  of  the  Stars 

But  an  oath  had  come  between  us  —  I  was  paid  by  Law 

and  Order; 

He  was  outlaw,  rustler,  killer  —  so  the  border  whisper  ran ; 
Left  his  word  in  Caliente  that  he  'd  cross  the  Rio  border  .  .  . 
Call  me  coward?   But  I  hailed  him.  .  .  .  "Riding  close 
to  daylight,  Dan!" 

Just  a  hair  and  he'd  have  got  me,  but  my  voice,  and  not 

the  warning, 
Caught  his  hand  and  held  him  steady;  then  he  nodded, 

spoke  my  name, 
Reined  his  pony  round  and  fanned  it  in  the  bright  and 

silent  morning, 
Back  across  the  sunlit  Rio  up  the  trail  on  which  he  came. 

He  had  passed  his  word  to  cross  it  —  I  had  passed  my 

word  to  get  him  — 

We  broke  even  and  we  knew  it;  't  was  a  case  of  give- 
and-take 
For  old  times.   I  could  have  killed  him  from  the  brush; 

instead,  I  let  him 

Ride  his  trail.  ...  I  turned  .  .  .  my  partner  flung  his  arm 
and  stretched  awake; 

Saw  me  standing  in  the  open;  pulled  his  gun  and  came  be 
side  me; 

Asked  a  question  with  his  shoulder  as  his  left  hand 
pointed  toward 

4 


The  Shallows  of  the  Ford 

Muddy  streaks  that  thinned  and  vanished  .  .  .  not  a  word, 

but  hard  he  eyed  me 

As  the  water  cleared  and  sparkled  in  the  shallows  of  the 
ford. 


RIDERS  OF  THE  STARS 

TWENTY  abreast  down  the  Golden  Street  ten  thousand 

»   « 

riders  marched; 
Bow-legged  boys  in  their  swinging  chaps,  all  clumsily 

keeping  time; 
And  the  Angel  Host  to  the  lone,  last  ghost  their  delicate 

eyebrows  arched 
As  the  swaggering  sons  of  the  open  range  drew  up  to  the 

Throne  Sublime. 

Gaunt  and  grizzled,  a  Texas  man  from  out  of  the  concourse 

strode, 
And  doffed  his  hat  with  a  rude,  rough  grace,  then  lifted 

his  eagle  head; 
The  sunlit  air  on  his  silvered  hair  and  the  bronze  of  his 

visage  glowed; 

"Marster,  the  boys  have  a  talk  to  make  on  the  things 
up  here,"  he  said. 

A  hush  ran  over  the  waiting  throng  as  the  Cherubim 

replied: 
"He  that  readeth  the  hearts  of  men  He  deemeth  your 

challenge  strange, 
Though  He  long  hath  known  that  ye  crave  your  own,  that 

ye  would  not  walk  but  ride, 

Oh,  restless  sons  of  the  ancient  earth,  ye  men  of  the 
open  range!" 

6 


Riders  of  the  Stars 

Then  warily  spake  the  Texas  man:   "A  petition  and  no 

complaint 
We  here  present,  if  the  Law  allows  and  the  Marster  He 

thinks  it  fit; 
We-all  agree  to  the  things  that  be,  but  we're  longing  for 

things  that  ain't, 

So  we  took  a  vote  and  we  made  a  plan  and  here  is  the 
plan  we  writ :  — 

"'Give  us  a  range  and  our  horses  and  ropes;  open  the  Pearly 

Gate, 
And  turn  us  loose  in  the  unfenced  blue  riding  the  sunset 

rounds, 
Hunting  each  stray  in  the  Milky  Way  and  running  the 

Rancho  straight; 

Not  crowding  the  dogie  stars  too  much  on  their  way  to  the 
bedding-grounds. 

Maverick  comets  that  9s  running  wild,  we  'II  rope  'em  and 

brand  'em  fair, 
So  they  'II  quit  stampeding  the  starry  herd  and  scaring  the 

folks  below, 
And  we  'II  save  'em  prime  for  the  round-up  time  and  we 

riders  'U  all  be  there, 
Ready  and  willing  to  do  our  work  as  we  did  in  the  long 

ago. 

We  've  studied  the  Ancient  Landmarks^  Sir;  Taurus,  the 
Bear,  and  Mars, 

-7 


Riders  of  the  Stars 

/• ' 

And  Venus  a-smiling  across  the  west  as  bright  as  a  burn 
ing  coal, 

Plain  to  guide  as  we  punchers  ride  night-herding  the  little 
stars, 

With  Saturn9 s  rings  for  our  home  corral  and  the  Dipper 
our  water-hole. 

Here,  we  have  nothing  to  do  but  yarn  of  the  days  that  have 

long  gone  by, 
And  our  singing  it  does  n't  fit  in  up  here,  though  we  tried  it 

for  old-time's  sake; 
Our  hands  are  itching  to  swing  a  rope  and  our  legs  are  stiff; 

that  's  why 
We  ask  you,  Marster,  to  turn  us  loose  —  just  give  us  an 

even  break  ! ' ' 

Then  the  Lord  He  spake  to  the  Cherubim,  and  this  was 

His  kindly  word: 
"  He  that  keepeth  the  threefold  keys  shall  open  and  let 

them  go; 
Turn  these  men  to  their  work  again  to  ride  with  the  starry 

herd; 

My  glory  sings  in  the  toil  they  crave;  't  is  their  right. 
I  would  have  it  so." 

Have  you  heard  in  the  starlit  dusk  of  eve  when  the  lone 
coyotes  roam, 

8 


Riders  of  the  Stars 

The  Yip!  Yip!  Yip!  of  a  hunting-cry,  and  the  echo  that  * 

shrilled  afar, 
As  you  listened  still  on  a  desert  hill  and  gazed  at  the  ^ 

twinkling  dome, 

And  a  viewless  rider  swept  the  sky  on  the  trail  of  a  shoot 
ing  star? 


LARGO 

BOUGHT  him  of  the  Navajos  —  shadow  of  a  pony, 
Over  near  the  Largo  draw,  runnin'  up  and  down; 

Twenty  pesos  turned  the  trick  —  broke  me  cold  and  stony; 
Then  I  set  to  figure  as  I  rambled  into  town. 

Tore  I  had  the  feel  of  him,  twice  he  like  to  thro  wed  me; 

He  did  n't  have  to  figure  sums  'cause  he  was  n't  broke; 
Then  he  took  to  runnin'  and  unknowin'-like,  he  showed  me 

Speed  that  was  surprisin'  in  a  twenty-dollar  joke. 

Wiry  little  Navajo,  no  bigger  than  a  minute; 

Did  a  heap  of  restin'  up  when  he  got  the  chance, 
But  .  .  .  ever  stop  a  pin- wheel  just  to  locate  what  was  in  it, 

Findin'  unexpected  you  was  settin'  on  your  pants? 

That  was  him  —  the  Largo  hoss;  did  n't  take  to  schoolin'; 

Relayed  out  of  Calient'  into  Santa  F£; 
Fifty  mile  of  kickin'  sand  and  not  a  wink  of  foolin* 

When  he  hit  the  desert  trail  windin'  down  that  way. 

Once  they  put  a  blooded  hoss  on  the  trail  behind  him; 

Passed  me  like  a  Kansas  blow;  Largo  did  n't  mind, 
Kept  a-runnin'  strong  and  sweet.    Reckoned  that  we'd 

find  him 

Like  we  did,  in  twenty  mile,  busted,  broke,  and  blind. 

10 


Largo 


Ever  see  a  Injun  race?  Times  I  could  'a'  sold  him 
For  a  dozen  cattle  —  a  most  interestin'  price; 

Set  to  figurin'  ag'in  —  bought  the  mare  that  foaled  him. 
Shucks !  Her  colts  they  could  n't  beat  a  herd  of  hobbled 
mice. 

Took"  the  brush  and  curry-comb  —  thought  he  'd  under 
stand  it  ... 

Him  a-loafin'  lazy  with  his  nose  across  the  bars; 
Reckon  dudes  comes  natural;  as  hard  as  he  could  land  it, 

He  druv  home  his  opinion  while  I  gathered  up  the  stars. 

That  was  him  —  the  Largo  hoss;  never  saw  another 
Desert  hoss  could  beat  him  when  he  started  out  to  float. 

Pedigree?  He  had  n't  none;  a  pony  was  his  mother, 
And  judgin'  from  his  looks  I  guess  his  father  was  a  goat. 

That's  him  now  a-standin'  there,  sleepy-like  and  dreamin'; 

Sell  him?  Thought  you'd  ask  me  that.  Northern  mail  is 

late 
Just  three  hours.  No,  not  to-day,  pardner.  Without  seemin* 

Brash  —  from  here  to  Santa  Fe  we  '11  wipe  it  off  the  slate. 

Bought  him  of  the  Navajos  —  broke  me  cold  and  stony; 

But  I  got  a  roll  to-day  —  tell  you  what  I  '11  do  — 
Ridin'  south?  Well,  pardner,  I'll  just  give  you  that  there 
pony, 

If  we  ain't  in  Santa  Fe  three  hours  ahead  of  you. 


CHANCE 

SIXTY  miles  from  a  homestead,  straight  as  the  crow  can 

%, 

We  camped  in  the  Deadwood  foothills.  Mineral?  Yes  — 

and  gold. 

Three  of  us  in  the  outfit;  the  burro  and  Chance  and  I; 
Chance  was  n't  more  than  a  pup  then,  goin'  on  two  year 

old. 

Already  he  knew  the  music  that  a  desert  rattler  makes 
When,  glimmerin'  under  a  yucca,  he'd  seen  'em  coil  to 

spring; 
But  he  did  n't  need  no  teachin'  to  keep  him  away  from 

snakes; 

You  should  seen  his  tail  go  under  when  he  heard  a  rattler 
sing! 

Town-folks  called  him  the  "  Killer,"  and  I  reckon  that  they 

was  right; 
Deep  in  the  chest,  wolf-muscled,  and  quicker  than  fire 

in  tow; 
But  one  of  the  kind  that  never  went  out  of  his  way  to 

fight, 

Though  he'd  tackle  a  corral  of  wild-cats  if  I  gave  him 
the  word  to  go. 

12 


Chance 

There  was  more  to  him  than  his  fightin'  —  he  was  wise;  it 

was  right  good  fun 
To  see  him  usin'  his  head-piece  when  the  sun  was  a-fryin* 

eggs, 

Trailin'  along  with  the  outfit  and  cheatin'  the  desert  sun 
By  keepin'  into  the  shadow  right  clost  to  my  burro's 
legs. 

I  knew  that  some  day  I  'd  lose  him,  for  the  desert  she  don't 

wait  long;  — 

Hosses  and  dogs  and  humans,  none  of  'em  get  too  old; 
Gold?   Looks  good  in  a  story  and  sounds  right  good  in  a 

song, 

But  the  men  that  go  out  and  get  it  —  they  know  what 
they  pay  for  gold! 

If  I  struck  a  ledge  that  showed  me  a  million,  —  the  whole 

thing  mine,  — 

I  'd  turn  it  over  to-morrow  (and  never  so  much  as  glance 
At  the  papers  the  law-sharks  frame  up  and  hand  you  a  pen 

to  sign) 

For  a  look  at  my  old  side-pardner,  the  "Killer,"  that  I 
called"  Chance." 

Why?  Well,  my  eyes,  one  mornin',  was  blinkin'  to  shake  a 

dream, 

And  Chance  was  sleepin'  beside  me,  breathin'  it  long  and 
deep, 

13 


Riders  of  the  Stars 

When  I  saw  a  awful  somethin'  and  I  felt  I  was  like  to 

scream  .  .  . 

There   was  a  big,  brown  rattler    coiled   in  my  arm, 
asleep. 

Move  .  .  .  and  I  knew  he'd  get  me.    Waitin',  I  held  my 

breath, 

Feelin'  the  sun  get  warmer,  wonderin'  what  to  do, 
Tryin'  to  keep  my  eyes  off  that  shinin'  and  sudden  death, 
When  Chance  he  lifted  his  head  up  and  slow  come  the 
rattler's,  too. 

"Take  him!"  I  tried  to  whisper.  Mebby  I  did.  I  know 
Chance's  neck  was  a-bristle  and  his  eyes  on  the  coiled-up 

snake; 
Its  head  was  a-movin'  gentle  —  like  weeds  when  the  south 

winds  blow, 

When   Chance   jumped   in  .  .  .  the     "Killer"...    Do 
that  for  a  pardner's  sake? 

I'd  like  to  think  that  I'd  do  it  I...  Up  there  in  the  far-off 

blue 
Old  Marster  He  sits  a-jedgin'  such  things.  Can  you  tell 

me  why, 
Knowin'  what  he  had  comin',   he  went   at   it  fightin'- 

true; 

Tore  that  snake  into  ribbons,  then  crawled  to  the  brush 
to  die? 

14 


Chance 

Never  come  near  me  after;  knew  that  he'd  got  his  call; 
Howcome  I  went  and  shot  him.  God !  I  can  see  his 

eyes ! 
See  where  those  pointed  shadows  run  down  that  canon 

wall? 

That  there 's  his  tombstone,  stranger,  bigger  than  money 
buys. 


MESA  MAGIC 

"  Speakin9  general  of  hosses,  in  a  kind  of  offhand  way"  — 
See  the  mesa  stealing  splendor  from  the  magic  of  the  sun, 
And  the  flowers  nodding  in  the  grass  like  children  at  their 


"  That  there  Toby  hoss  of  mine  was  lots  of  fun  " 

"  Just  how  much  that  hoss  could  sabe  —  'course  he  could  n't 

ready  but,  well,"  — 
While  the  mountain  shadows  mingling  lay  like  pools 

above  the  sand, 
As  the  gentle  Padre  climbs  the  stair  to  ring  the  mission 

bell,  — 
"  That  there  Toby  hoss  could  always  understand." 

"  Did  you  ever  know  a  hoss  to  fall  in  love  ?  Some  funny, 

too,"  — 

Making  music  o'er  the  silence  of  the  eventide,  aglow 
With  the  Spanish  girls'  scrapes,  red  and  yellow,  pink  and 

blue,  — 
"  Yes,  that  Toby  hoss  he  set  up  for  a  beau." 

"He  used  to  come  and  nicker  soft,  a-peekin'  through  the 

bars,"  — 

Till  the  pretty  colors  vanish  in  the  swift  and  starry 
change 

16 


Mesa  Magic 

Of  the  sky  from  blue  to  velvet-black  and  silver  flame  of 

stars,  — 
"At  a  lady-hoss  he  fancied  on  the  range" 

"He'd  act  pow'ful  polite  and  bow  his  head — to  get  some 

grass"  — 

Desert  magic  and  the  mystery  of  an  Arizona  night, 
While  across  the  brown  adobes  flitting  shadows  form  and 

pass;  — 
"  There  is  no  use  talking  Toby  was  polite" 

"But  that  lady-hoss  was  scornful,  fat,   and  acted  like  a 

goat,"  — 
Dancing  shadows  of  the  pepper-tree  by  desert  breeze 

caressed, 
While  the  little  owl  awakens  with  his  hushed  and  plaintive 

note,  — 
"But  of  all  the  hosses,  Toby  liked  her  best." 

"'T  was  a  interestin'  courtin',  with  the  line-fence  in  be 
tween,"  — 
To   the   moonlight  like  a  faery  mist  upon  the  mesa 

spread, 
And  the  world  is  but  a  bubble  in  the  soft  and  silver 

sheen,  — 
"Say,  I  reckon  you  ain't  heard  a  word  I  said." 


THE  DESERT 

'T  WAS  the  lean  coyote  told  me,  baring  his  slavish  soul, 
As  I  counted  the  ribs  of  my  dead  cayuse  and  cursed  at 

the  desert  sky, 

The  tale  of  the  upland  rider's  fate,  while  I  dug  in  the  water- 
hole 

For  a  taste,  a  drop  of  the  bitter  seep;  but  the  water-hole 
was  dry. 

"He  came,"  said  the  lean  coyote,  "and  cursed  as  his  pony 

fell, 
And  he  counted  his  pony's  ribs  aloud;  yea,  even  as  you 

have  done; 
He  raved  as  he  ripped  at  the  clay-red  sand  like  an  imp  from 

the  pit  of  hell, 

Shriveled  with  thirst  for  a  thousand  years  and  craving  a 
drop  —  just  one." 

"His  name?"  I  asked;  and  he  answered,  yawning  to  hide 

a  grin;  * 

"  His  name  is  writ  on  the  prison-roll  and  many  a  place 

beside ; 
And  last  he  scribbled  it  on  the  sand  with  a  finger  seared  and 

thin, 

And  I  watched  his  face  as  he  spelled  it  out  and  laughed, 
as  I  laughed,  and  died. 
18 


The  Desert 

"And  thus,"  said  the  lean  coyote,  "  his  need  is  the  hungry 's 

feast, 
And  mine."  I  fumbled  and  pulled  my  gun  and  emptied 

it  wild  and  fast, 
But  one  of  the  crazy  shots  went  home  and  silenced  the 

waiting  beast; 

There  lay  the  shape  of  the  Liar,  dead;  'twas  I  that 
should  laugh  the  last. 

Laugh?  Nay,  now  I  would  write  my  name  as  the  upland 

rider  wrote. 
Write?  What  need?  For  before  my  eyes  was  a  wide  and 

wavering  line; 

I  saw  the  trace  of  a  written  word  and  letter  by  letter  float 
Into  the  mist  as  the  world  grew  dark;  and  I  knew  that 
the  name  was  mine. 

Dreams  and  visions  within  the  dream;  turmoil  and  fire 

and  pain; 
Hands  that  proffered  a  brimming  cup,  empty  ere  I  could 

take; 
Then  the  burst  of  a  thunder-head;  rain!  it  was  rude  fierce 

rain! 

Blindly  down  to  the  hole  I  crept,  shivering,  drenched, 
awake! 

Dawn;  and  I  saw  the  red-rimmed  sun  scattering  golden 
flame, 

19 


Riders  of  the  Stars 

As  stumbling  down  to  the  water-hole  came  the  horse  that 

I  thought  was  dead ! 
But  never  a  sign  of  the  other  beast  nor  the  trace  of  a  rider's 

name; 
Just  a  rain-washed  track  and  an  empty  gun;  and  the  old 

home  trail  ahead. 


LAST  OF  THE  CAVALIERS 

NEVERMORE  shall  the  ranges  ring  as  once  when  ye  loped 

along; 

Only  the  timid  echoes  sing  old  memories  of  your  song; 
Now  what  need  that  ye  ride  the  line  numb  in  the  winter 

snow? 
Fallen  the  far-seen  upland  pine;  fenced  are  the  plains 

below. 

Out  where  the  lone  coyote  shrills,  limned  on  the  desert 

sand, 
Under  the  moon  of  the  eastern  hills  baring  that  ghostly 

land, 
Gleams  the  rim  of  the  water-hole,  white,  with  no  print  of 

hoof; 
Ye  would  not  know  that  yon  shadowed  knoll  is  the  ridge  of 

a  nester's  roof. 

Still    in    Sonera's    market-place    gather    the    laughing 

girls, 

Each  a  rose  in  the  ebon  lace  filming  her  dusky  curls; 
Gay  serape  and  eyes  alight  with  the  glint  of  a  southern 

pride 
Born  of  a  kiss  in  the  summer  night:  wondering  where  ye 

ride. 

21 


Riders  of  the  Stars 

Ye  rode  singing  down  a  thousand  trails,  drifting  from 

change  to  change, 

Dreaming  of  where  the  eagle  sails  over  the  open  range; 
Proud,  ye  held  to  your  heart's  desire  scorning  the  newer 

years, 
Lost  in  the  glow  of  the  sunset  fire  .  .  .  last  of  the  Cavaliers. 

So  ye  went  to  your  unknown  end,  answering  jest  with  jest, 
Recking  naught  where  the  trail  might  wend,  men  of  the 

Golden  West, 
Spurring  a  rein-loose  race  with  Chance,  riding  it  hard  and 

straight, 
Living,  unguessed,  the  True  Romance  —  daring  to  love 

and  hate. 

Have  ye  dreamed  of  the  mesa  grass  starred  with  the  flower  of 

blue; 

Morning  haze  in  the  mountain-pass,,  sage  in  the  silver  dew? 
Blush  of  the  manzanita  bloom,  bud  of  the  almond  tree, 
Yucca  hid  in  the  canon  gloom;  drone  of  the  questing  bee  ? 

Now  and  ye  ride  in  the  sunset  glow  e'en  as  ye  did  of  old, 

Twain  and  twain  as  ye  used  to  go,  brave  in  a  flare  of 
gold, 

Each  his  law;  and  all  unamazed,  facing  the  phantom 
plains, 

Foot  clear  home  and  an  arm  upraised  to  the  music  of  bridle- 
reins  ! 


THE  FAR  AND  LONELY  fflLL 

OVER  on  the  Malibu  we  rode  the  range  together;  j 
Three  as  lively  buckaroos  as  ever  forked  a  hoss; 

Flavin'  jokes  and  singin'  songs  in  every  kind  of  weather, 
And  anything  we  tackled  —  why,  it  had  to  come  across. 

Sage  a-skinin9  in  the  rain;  sun  just  breakin'  cover; 

Tail-to-wind  the  ponies  standin'  thoughtful-tike  and  still, 
While  across  the  mornin'  comes  the  cheepin'  of  the  plover 

Hidin'  in  the  shadow  of  the  far  and  lonely  hill. 

Funny,  how  we  never  saw  that  it  was  drawin'  nearer; 

Edgin'  closer  every  day  that  lonely  hill  it  came; 
Wakin'  in  the  sunshine  we  could  see  it  big  and  clearer, 

But  we  kept  a-ridin'  and  a-singin'  just  the  same. 

Little  owls  a-lookin'  back  solemn-like  and  blinkin'; 

Sunlight    dancin'   on    the    sand    and   burnin'  out  the 

grass; 
Summer  .  .  .  round  the  water-hole  the  crowdin'  steers  all 

drinkin', 
Just  before  we  push  'em  to  the  range  beyond  the  pass. 

Seems  we  did  n't  sing  so  much;  ropes  they  did  the  singin'; 
Ponies'  feet  they  played  the  tune;  other  riders  told 

23 


Riders  of  the  Stars 

All  the  yarns  and  sprung  the  jokes  and  kept  the  laugh 

a-ringin'  .  .  . 
Even  then  we  did  n't  know  that  we  was  growin'  old. 

Two  of  us  was  left  to  ride  the  Malibu  together; 

And  sittin'  by  the  fire  at  night  so  solemn-like  and  still, 
We  began  to  notice  every  little  change  of  weather, 

Shiverin'  in  the  shadow  of  the  far  and  lonely  hill. 

Knew  we  had  to  climb  it  —  knew  the  trail  was  mighty 

narrow; 

Made  a  hand-shake  on  it  that  the  next  to  go  that  way 
Would  kind  of  blaze  the  turns  with  our  old  brand  "The 

Double-  Arrow, " 
So  the  last  to  follow  would  n't  lose  the  trail  and  stray. 

Down  below  I  see  the  herd  and  dust  a-rollin'  nigher; 

Mornin'  on  the  Malibu  where  once  we  used  to  ride; 
Pony's  frettin'  on  the  bit  —  we  can't  go  any  higher; 

I  reckon  if  we  got  to  go,  it's  down  the  other  side. 

Sage  a-shinin'  in  the  sun  that 's  just  a-breakin'  cover; 

All  around  the  ranges  loomin'  high  and  cold  and  still, 
As  from  the  Other  Valley  comes  the  cheepin'  of  the  plover, 

And  I  see  the  Double-Arrow  pointin'  down  the  lonely  hiU. 


THE  RANGER  AND  THE  BEAR 

UP  in  the  high  Sierras,  where  they  overlook  the  Kern, 
There 's  a  trail  on  the  edge  of  nothing,  and  a  mile  by  the 

plumb,  below, 
Is  a  tomb  for  the  upland  rider  that  is  fool  enough  to 

turn 

His  hoss  till  he  reaches  the  meadows  beyond  where  the 
mountain-daisies  grow. 

The  sun  was  painting  the  eastern  peaks  with  a  kind  of 

running  fire, 
But  a  morning  chill  was  in  the  air  as  keen  as  an  eagle's 

claw; 
I  was  riding  slouched  and  easy-like  and  singing  of  heart's 

desire, 

When  my  pony  stopped,  though  the  rein  was  slack,  and 
my  singing  stopped;  I  saw 

Black  on  the  cliff  a  something  bigger  than  any  man; 
Blur  .  .  .  't  was    a    old   she-grizzly  blocking   the   trail 

ahead; 
She  talked  to  the  cubs  beside  her  and  they  turned  at  her 

growl  and  ran 

As  my  hand  slid  down  to  my  holster;  but  I  changed  my 
mind;  instead 

25 


Riders  of  the  Stars 

I  off  of  my  boss,  stepped  forward  and  raising  my  hat  polite 
(But  I  raised  my  hat  left-handed,  my  right  being  filled 

and  pat) 
I  said  to  that  old  bear-lady:  "Now  it  isn't  my  wish  to 

fight, 

Or  I  'd  set  to  fanning  my  six-gun  'stead  of  tipping  to  you 
my  hat." 

And,  pardner,  would  you  believe  it!  she  dropped  to  the 

ledge  and  swung  .  .  . 
Turned  where  a  boss  could  n't  make  it  and  took  after 

them  cubs  of  hern; 
I  stood  there  looking  foolish  where  a  bunch  of  them  blue 

flowers  hung 

Over  the  edge  of  nothing,  smiling  down  on  the  river 
Kern. 

My  cayuse  was  a-shaking  and  sweating;  he  was  chilly  — 

and  so  was  I, 
Howcome,  I  swung  to  the  saddle  and  got  him  a-moving 

slow, 

But  I  quit  my  glass-eyed  gazing  at  the  colors  across  the  sky 
And  took  to  surveying  the  landscape  just  ahead,  where 
we  had  to  go. 

Mebby  a  half -hour  later  we  was  pushing  across  the  line 
Where  the  rock  joins  on  to  the  timber  when  I  spied  a  few 
rods  away 


The  Ranger  and  the  Bear 

The  back  of  that  old  she- grizzly;  I  went  for  that  gun  of 

mine; 

Then,  thinks  I,  she  is  minding  her  business;  so  I'll  tend 
to  my  own,  to-day. 

Just  a-guarding  her  headstrong  young  ones;  doing  the  best 

she  can; 
Willing  to  do  the  wise  thing;  game,  but  not  looking  for 

fight; 
Pretty  good  rule  for  a  human.  .  .  .  Oh,  I  guess  I'm  an  easy 

man, 

But  the  grizzly  and  me  broke  even,  'cause  the  both  of  us 
was  polite. 


SUNLIGHT 

SUNLIGHT,  a  colt  from  the  ranges,  glossy  and  gentle  and 

strong, 
Dazed  by  the  multiple  thunder  of  wheels  and  the  thrust 

of  the  sea, 
Fretted  and  chafed  at  the  changes  —  ah,  but  the  journey 

was  long! 

Officer's  charger  —  a  wonder  —  pick  of  the  stables  was 
he. 

Flutter  of  flags  in  the  harbor;  rumble  of  guns  in  the  street; 
England!  and  rhythm  of  marching;  mist  and  the  swing  of 

the  tide; 
France  and  an  Oriflamme  arbor  of  lilies  that  drooped  in 

the  heat; 

Sunlight,  with  mighty  neck  arching,  flecked  with  the 
foam  of  his  pride ! 

Out  from  the  trenches  retreating,  weary  and  grimy  and 

worn, 
Lean  little  men  paused  to  cheer  him,  turning  to  pass  to 

their  rest; 
Shrilled  him  a  pitiful  greeting,  mocking  the  promise  of 

morn 

With  hope  and  wild  laughter  to  hear  him  answer  with 
challenging  zest. 

28 


Sunlight 

Victory!  That  was  the  spirit!  Once  they  had  answered  the 

thrill; 
Toiled  at  the  guns  while  incessant  sang  that  invisible, 

dread 

Burden  of  death.  Ah,  to  hear  it,  merciless,  animate,  shrill, 
Whining  aloft  in  a  crescent,  shattering  living  and  dead ! 

And  Sunlight?  What  knew  he  of  battle?  Strange  was  this 

turmoil  and  haste. 

Why  should  he  flinch  at  the  firing;  swerve  at  the  man 
gled  and  slain? 
Where  was  the  range  and  the  cattle?  Here  was  but  carnage 

and  waste; 

Yet  with  a  patience  untiring  he  answered  to  spur  and  to 
rein. 

Answered,  when,  out  of  disorder,  rout,  and  the  chaos  of 

night, 
Came  the  command  to  his  master,  "Cover  the  Seventh's 

retreat!" 
On,  toward  the  flame  of  the  border,  into  the  brunt  of  the 

fight, 

Swept  that  wild  wind  of  disaster,  on  with  the  tide  of 
defeat. 

Softly  the  dawn-wind  awaking  fluttered  a  pennant  that 

fell 

Over  the  semblance  of  Sunlight,  stark  in  the  pitiless  day; 

29 


Riders  of  the  Stars 

Riddled  and  slashed  by  the  bullets  sped  from  the  pit  of  that 

hell  .  .  . 

Groaning,  his  master,  beside  him,  patted  his  neck  where 
he  lay. 

"  Sunlight,  it  was  n't  for  glory  .  .  .  England  ...  or  France 

...  or  the  fame 

Of  victory  .  .  .     No  .  .  .  not  the  glowing  tribute  of  his 
tory's  pen. 
Good-bye,  old  chap,  for  I  'm  going  .  .  .  earned  it  ...  your 

death  is  the  shame  .  .  . 

We  fought  for  the  world,  not  an  Island.  .  .  .   We  fought 
for  the  honor  of  men." 

So  we  have  sold  them  our  horses.  What  shall  we  do  with 

the  gold? 

Lay  it  on  Charity's  altar,  purchasing  columns  of  praise? 
Noble  indeed  are  our  courses;  running  the  race  as  of  old; 
But  why  should  we  Mammonites  falter?  Noble  indeed 
are  our  ways. 


THAT  ROAN  CAYUSE 

COLT  she  was  when  I  spied  her,  stray  on  the  open  range; 
Starvin'  poor,  for  the  feed  was  thin  and  water-holes  far 

between. 
I  roped  her  and  threw  and  tied  her,  for  I  saw  she  was  actin' 

strange; 

And  on  her  breast  was  a  barb- wire  cut  —  the  worst  I 
have  ever  seen. 

Talk  about  nursin' !    Maybe  that  hoss  was  n't  raised  by 

hand! 
Boys  they  joshed  when  they  saddled  up  and  when  they 

rode  in  at  night; 
"S-s-s-h!    Don't  you  wake  the  baby!    Say,  can't  you 

understand  — 

Cussin'  don't  go  in  this  horsepital,  or  Doc '11  get  mad  and 
bite!" 

Look  at  her  now!    Like  copper,  shinin'  and  sleek  and 

strong ! 
Follow  a  mountain  trail  all  day  and  finish  a-steppin' 

high. 
Nothin'  out  here  can  stop  her,  and  she  lopes  like  a  swallow's 

song. 

Wicked  as  fire  to  a  stranger  —  but  as  gentle  to  me  as 
pie. 

31 


Riders  of  the  Stars 

Look  at  her  straight-up  ears,  now,  listenin'  to  you  and  me ! 

Her  eyes  are  askin'  questions;  wonderin'  what's  to  do. 
Understands  what  she  hears?  Now,  watch  when  I  call  and 

see 

How  she  '11  circle  around  to  my  side  and  flatten  her  ears 
at  you. 

Bronco?  Don't  pay  to  quirt  her.  I'm  bronco  myself,  some 

days, 
Pitchin'  when  luck  is  a-ridin'  me  hard  and  pilin'  it  if  I 

can. 
But  a  quick,  hard  word  will  hurt  her  —  for  a  hoss  has 

peculiar  ways; 

Use  any  hoss  like  a  human  and  he  '11  treat  you  just  like  a 
man. 

You  'd  ride  her?  That 's  not  surprisin',  for  judgin'  your  legs, 

you  could. 
But  flowers  are  scarce  at  this  time  of  year  and  there  is  n't 

a  parson  nigh. 

She  sure  needs  exercisin' ;  't  would  do  her  a  lot  of  good, 
But  I'd  hate  to  see  you  a-flyin',  'cause  you  ain't  built 
right  to  fly. 

Remember  that  old-time  sayin',  cinched  up  in  a  two-bit 

rhyme? 

"There  is  n't  a  hoss  that  can't  be  rode."  And  many  a 
rider  tries, 

32 


That  Roan  Cayuse 

But  when  it  comes  to  stayin',  why,  you  can't  stay  every 

time; 

"There  is  n't  a  man  that  can't  be  throwed"  is  the  place 
where  the  song  gets  wise. 

"That  roan  cayuse  of  the  Concho":  when  a  hoss  has  a 

name  like  that, 
You  can  figure  its  reputation  without  askin'  another 

word. 
You  can  roll  it  up  in  your  poncho,  or  bury  it  under  your 

hat, 

It 's  just  like  that  picture- writin'  —  means  lots  that  you 
have  n't  heard. 

You  straighten  them  ears  up  pronto!   You,  showin*  your 

teeth  at  me! 
Here,  now,  you  quit  your  bitin*  —  do  you  think  I  'm  a 

bale  of  hay? 
You'd  buy  her?  She  heard  you  say  it  —  ears  flat  and  eye 

rollin',  see! 

Well,  she  is  the  lady  to  talk  to  —  and  I  guess  that 's  your 
answer,  eh? 


THE  OUTCAST 

WITH  thrill  of  birds  adown  the  dawn  there  came 
A  golden  arrow  through  the  eastern  pass, 

And  in  the  gold  were  eyes  of  amber  flame 
That  burned  upon  me  from  the  dewy  grass. 

A  wolf-dog,  from  some  distant  rancho  strayed, 
Had  made  his  bed  beneath  the  pepper-tree  ; 

A  great,  gray  ghost,  sore-wounded,  lone,  afraid, 
He  growled  deep-throated  as  he  glared  at  me. 

With  kindly  word  I  lured  him  from  his  bed 
To  proffer  food  and  drink  and  nearer  drew, 

But  in  his  eyes  I  saw  affection  dead; 

'T  was  only  hate  and  hunger  that  he  knew. 

Poor  brute,  once  brave  and  fearless  as  the  best, 
Faithful  to  some  lost  master's  kindly  hand, 

I  grieved  that  I  had  so  disturbed  his  rest, 
As  trembling  in  the  sun  I  saw  him  stand. 

Fearful,  and  yet  assured  that  in  my  voice 

A  friend  he  knew.    He  quivered,  turned,  and  then, 

As  though  he  had  made  choice  against  his  choice, 
Betook  him,  limping,  to  the  road  again. 
34 


The  Outcast 

Slowly  I  followed,  coaxing,  calling,  till 

The  very  act  of  fleeing  lent  him  fear, 
Swiftly  he  climbed  the  long,  low,  eastern  hill, 

Gazed  back  an  instant;  turned  to  disappear; 

And  still  I  followed,  sick  at  heart  for  him, 

Sad  for  the  strong,  brave  brute  he  once  had  been, 

As  in  the  morning  sun  my  eyes  grew  Him 
To  see  him  stretched  again  amid  the  green, 

Resting  his  battered  head  upon  his  paws, 

Licking  his  wounds,  then  glancing  wildly  round; 

Ah,  pity  that  his  fear  was  without  cause; 

I  turned  and  left  him  stretched  upon  the  ground 

An  outcast;  but  if  human  love  for  beast 

Has  any  worth,  I  prayed  that  night  would  send 

An  easy  death.  Ah,  could  he  know  at  least 
How  much,  how  much  I  would  have  been  his  friend ! 


THE  KILLER 

GOT  to  kill  to  live  .  .  .  that's  right  .  .  . 

Trail  is  mighty  hot  and  dusty; 
Sleepin'  in  the  brush  at  night, 

Both  my  guns  a-gettin'  rusty; 
Sun  a-burnin'  high  and  bright, 

On  the  trail  to  Malachite. 

Yonder  through  the  blindin'  glare, 
Dreamin'  down  the  lazy  hours 

Stands  the  'dobe;  and  the  air 

Just  plumb  rich  with  scent  of  flowers ! 

Roses  bloomin'  everywhere  .  .  . 
Wonder  if  she 's  livin'  there 

Now?  I  '11  light  right  down  and  see. 

Buenos  Dios!  Yes,  I'm  back; 
Knew  that  you  'd  remember  me  .  .  . 

Concho  outfit 's  on  my  track? 
Senorita,  thanks!  I'm  goin' 

Down  to  pay  the  debt  that's  owins. 

No,  I'm  goin'.   Won't  you  shake  — 
Say  Adios?  For  I'll  miss  you. 

Life  is  short.   I  always  take 

What  I  want,  and  so,  I  '11  kiss  you. 

Sho!  There's  no  one  'round  to  see  us; 
Just  one  more  and  then,  Adios! 
36 


The  Killer 

Better  ride  the  other  way? 

Thanks  again.  That  smile  is  winnin'. 
Sheriff  now  is  your  Jose! 

Gosh!  That  makes  a  tough  beginnin', 
But  that  kiss  is  worth  a  fight 

Any  time,  in  Malachite. 

Bronc,  you  take  your  drink  and  I  '11 
Sift  in  here  and  see  what's  doin'. 

Same  old  sign  —  "The  Forty-Mile"  — 
Old  saloon  is  most  a  ruin; 

How,  Amigo!  Some  hot  day! 
Howdy,  Pedro!  How,  Jose! 

Don't  get  nervous.  Have  a  drink. 

Yes,  I  'm  on  the  job  to  buy  it. 
Sho!  Why,  I  can  hear  you  think; 

Keep  your  hands  still  —  don't  you  try  it ! 
I  come  friendly  .  .  .     Call  me,  eh? 

Take  it  then,  you  fool,  Jose. 

Had  to  kill  to  live  .  .  .  The  fool 

Might  'a'  downed  his  glass  of  liquor, 

But  a  Chola  can't  keep  cool, 

And  he  knew  my  hand  was  quicker, 

But  he  had  to  call  my  hand  .  .  . 
Wonder  if  she'll  understand? 


APUNI  OYIS 

(BUTTERFLY  LODGE) 

THERE'S  a  lodge  in  Arizona  where  the  rugged  pines  are 

marching 
Straight  and  stalwart  up  the  hillside  till  they  gather  on 

the  crest, 
And  around  their  feet  the  grasses  and  the  purple  flowers 

are  arching 

In  the  dim  and  golden  glamour  of  the  sunlight  in  the 
West. 

In  the  lodge  —  Apuni  Oyis  —  dwells  the  Chief  who  writes 

the  stories 
Of  the  Blackfeet  —  mighty  hunters  in  the  pleasant  days 

of  old  — 
Tales  of  love  and  war  and  friendship,  tales  of  mysteries  and 

glories, 

When  the  prairie  moon  was  silver  and  the  sun  was  faery 
gold. 

And  the  trails  along  the  mountains,  o'er  the  mesa  and  the 

river, 

Lead  to  far  and  hidden  canons  where  the  sleeping  red 
men  lie, 

38 


Apuni  Oyis 

Wrapped  in  silence  as  above  them  myriad  aspen  leaves 

aquiver 

Whisper  secrets  to  the  west  wind  as  the  pack-train 
ambles  by; 

Where  the  swart  Apache  hunts  and  dreams  of  warriors  now 

a-dreaming; 
Where  the  mountain  stream  runs  swiftly,  talking  loudly 

to  the  day, 
To  the  rock-rimmed  pool  and  onward  as  an  unexpected 

gleaming 

Marks  the  trout  that  leaps  to  vanish  in  a  burst  of  silver 
spray: 

Trails  that  climb  the  rocky  fortress  of  the  ridge  and  have 

their  ending 

In  forlorn  and  ravaged  temples  of  a  people  all  unknown; 
Trails  we  make,  and  did  we  know  it  —  on  and  on  forever 

blending 

With  the  red  man's,  toward  the  sunset  —  are  no  clearer 
than  his  own. 

Oh,  the  hills  of  Arizona  in  the  pleasant  autumn  weather! 

Oh,  the  lodge — Apuni  Oyis — where  is  happiness  and  rest! 
May  the  dreams  we  share  come  true,  and  may  we  live  them 

all  together, 

We  who  love  the  ancient  magic  of  the  mountains  of  the 
West. 


THE  PEACE  OF  THE  HILLS 

UP  in  the  mighty  hills  where  the  breeze  of  the  sea 
Tosses  the  purple  bells  of  the  budding  flowers, 

That  nod  to  the  musical  drone  of  the  questing  bee, 
When  the  sun  breaks  forth  in  a  golden  symphony, 

And  life  is  not  measured  by  joy  or  grief  or  the  hours, 
There  stands  a  castle  splendid  with  many  towers, 
Up  in  the  mighty  hills. 

Its  gates  are  of  burnished  gold  and  ivory; 

Its  roof  is  jeweled  with  myriad  wonderful  stars; 
And  within  is  a  throne  that  is  veiled  in  the  Mystery; 

And  the  Weaver  of  Dreams  alone  has  the  magic  key  — 
The  Weaver  of  Dreams  alone  may  unlock  the  bars 

Of  the  palace  where  never  the  voice  of  a  mortal  mars 
The  peace  of  the  mighty  hills. 

Have  ye  sought  for  the  gates  of  gold  and  ivory? 
Have  ye  stooped  to  the  fragrant  bells  of  the  budding 

flowers? 
Have  ye  followed  the  musical  drone  of  the  questing  bee 

As  the  sun  broke  forth  in  a  golden  symphony, 
Till  life  was  not  measured  by  joy  or  grief  or  the  hours? 
And  so  —  ye  have  entered  the  gates  of  those  magic 
towers 

And  the  peace  of  the  mighty  hills. 
40 


IN  THE  VALLEY 

Ix  the  valley  of  Parnassus  where  we  minor  poets  ride, 
There's  a  trail  meandering  upward  to  the  parent-peak 

sublime, 
And  we  've  seen  lone  riders  pass  us  as  we  reined  our  steeds 

aside, 

Vowing  then  that  we  would  make  it  —  given  elbow- 
room  and  time. 

One  by  one  we've  faced  the  highland,  dared  the  fate  of 

those  that  seek, 
On  and  up  as  rhythmic  echoes  from  the  golden  heights 

were  sped; 
Faery  sunlight,  cloudy  island,  lofty  ledge,  and  farthest 

peak, 

Till  the  trail  was  lost  in  midnight  and  we  turned  about 
and  fled. 

Hastened  back  with  bridles  ringing  as  we  neared  the  wider 

land, 
Turned  our  ponies  out  to  pasture;  found  a  friend  to 

sympathize 
With    the    tenor    of    our    singing   of    the   beautiful    at 

hand, 

In  a  rhythm  caught  from  echoes  flitting  down  from  rarer 
skies. 

41 


Riders  of  the  Stars 

Yet  we  'd  have  no  one  suppose  us  all  unfitted  for  the  task; 
We  have  failed,  but  we  have  tried  it,  giving  brain  and 

heart  and  hand 
To  the  triumph  (quite  like  Moses)  of  our  failure;  and  we 

ask 

Just  to  glimpse  the  smiling  splendor  of  a  far  and  prom 
ised  land. 

So  we  sing  and  oft,  in  chorus,  though  each  deems  the  song 

his  own, 
As  we  ride  the  pleasant  valley  spread  with  starry  flowers 

of  blue; 
We've  Parnassus  still  before  us,  high  and  splendid,  proud 

and  lone, 
And  the  solid  satisfaction  of  a  comrade's  equal  view. 

Fame  and  folk  will  soon  forget  us  even  as  we  shall  forget, 
But  there  still  remains  Parnassus  for  the  coming  ones  to 

dare; 
And  —  perchance  the  Muse  will  let  us  pluck  a  stave  —  or 

violet, 
As  we  pass  beyond  the  valley  and  dissolve  in  upper  air. 


THE  QUEST 

MORNING  wakes  the  meadowlark,  adown  the  field  he's 

singing, 

From  out  his  glowing  hermitage  of  poppies  in  the  grass; 
The  sunlight  shatters  on  the  hills  and  shreds  of  mist  are 

clinging 

Athwart  the  dim  and  lofty  peaks  that  mark  the  moun 
tain-pass. 

Ah,  don't  you  hear  above  the  song,  far,    faery  echoes 

falling, 

Each  fainter  as  a  haze  of  gold  rekindles  bud  and  tree; 
Low,  sweet,  and  alien  melodies,  still  calling,  calling,  calling, 
Across  the  long  and  shadowy  slopes  that  run  to  meet  the 
sea? 

The  fragrance  of  the  purple  sage;  the  trail  forever  wending 
Into  the  desert  dun  and  wide  through  haunted  lands  and 

drear; 

Communion  with  the  silences  and  solitudes  unending 
Are  dearer  to  my  heart  than  love,  though  love  were  ever 
dear. 

You  say  that  you  would  come  with  me  and  find  those  hid 
den  places, 

Daring  the  hazard  of  the  way,  whate'er  the  way  betide, 

43 


Riders  of  the  Stars 

Adventuring  to  dream  the  dream  of  fair,  mysterious  faces 
That  haunt  the  outer  loneliness  .  .  .  but  ne'er  where 
twain  abide. 

The  dew  of  tears  upon  your  eyes;  your  gentle  fingers  reach 
ing 

To  clasp  the  vision  ere  it  melt  and  mingle  with  the  dawn; 
But  oh,  my  dear,  the  voices  call  despite  your  lips  be 
seeching; 

Love  was  our  monarch  yesterday;  to-day  the  king  is 
gone. 

To  each  alone  the  voices  call;  to  each  his  own  beholding 

Of  that  diviner  Mystery,  elusive  as  the  gold 
The  sun  has  woven  with  your  hair  —  a  flower  of  love  un 
folding, 

But  e'en  so  close  I  may  not  touch  the  Power  that  bids 
unfold. 

That  which  men  seek  and  may  not  find,  for  that  my  heart  is 

yearning; 
Love  were  less  perfect  should  it  chide  the  soul  that  fain 

would  know; 
And  oh,  my  dear,  the  voices  call  .  .  .  and  yours,  for  my 

returning, 

Yet  through  your  tears  the  vision  comes  .  .  .  and  you 
have  bid  me  go. 


THE  GLORIOUS  FOOL 

CHRIST  save  me  from  half-hearted  men 
Who  time  their  steps  by  hour  and  rule; 

Who  measure  life  by  word  and  pen, 
Too  pale  of  mind  to  play  the  fool. 

For  me  the  glorious  fool  that  rides 
High  poised  upon  the  neck  of  Fate; 

Who  laughs  when  palsied  censure  chides; 
Who  dares  to  love,  and  dares  to  hate. 

Oh,  fool,  on  your  adventure  trail 

That  flames  across  the  farthest  wave, 

The  storm  that  thunders  in  your  sail, 
The  tide  that  swings  above  your  grave, 

Stars  mirrored  in  the  dreamless  sea, 
White  faces  of  the  loves  you  knew, 

Great-hearted  men  who  dare  be  free, 
Chant  deathless  requiem  to  you ! 

Captain  of  causes  lost,  forlorn, 
Drunk  with  the  glory  of  the  strife, 

You  met  with  joy  each  fighting  morn, 
Full-throated,  drinking  deep  of  life. 
45 


Riders  of  the  Stars 

Mad  lover  striding  overbold 

Through  uncompanioned,  loveless  years, 
Still  are  you  victor!  Still  you  hold 

The  memory  of  those  lips,  those  tears! 

Atom  of  star-fire,  lightly  tossed 
To  the  abysmal  maw  of  Time, 

Wise  men  foregathering  whisper,  "Lost!" 
But  to  their  hearts  they  cry,  "Sublime!" 

And  I?  Ah,  would  that  I  might  these 
Rude  stanzas  shape  to  worth  and  rule, 

But  like  to  you,  I  may  not  please 
Half-hearted  men,  oh,  glorious  fool! 


THE  TRAMP 

YONDER  upon  the  road  he  stands: 

Ulysses  in  a  modern  guise, 
Dreaming  of  undiscovered  lands 

Beyond  the  azure  of  the  skies,  — 
Of  some  Penelope,  whose  eyes 

Long  years  of  waiting  may  not  dim  .  .  . 
Though  reason  whisper  otherwise, 

Still,  in  his  heart  she  waits  for  him. 

To  him,  no  matter  what  it  brings 

The  game  of  life  is  but  a  jest. 
He  has  no  time  to  seek  the  things 

For  which  we  toil;  supreme  unrest 
Impels  him  with  a  wider  zest  — 

Though  nonchalant  —  past  all  our  strife; 
True  to  himself,  he  stands  the  test 

And  as  he  chooses  lives  his  life. 

With  smooth  contempt  we  pass  him  by, 

Or  patronize  him  for  a  space. 
His  is  the  larger  charity, 

With  no  contempt  upon  his  face; 
For  he,  with  somewhat  nobler  grace, 

Endures  the  sun,  the  wind,  the  rain, 
And  Man  .  .  .     How  well  he  knows  his  place 

And  turns  him  to  the  road  again. 
47 


Riders  of  the  Stars 

Circe  may  lure  him  with  her  smile, 

And  siren  melodies  delight 
His  keen,  deliberate  ear,  the  while 

He  seeks  his  star  and  reads  aright 
The  promise  of  the  summer  night, 

And  dawn  upon  the  mountain  dim; 
He  knows  that  far  beyond  the  height, 

Penelope  still  waits  for  him. 


TRAIL-TO-GLORY 

COULD  old  Trail-to-Glory  preach! 
Seems  he  understood  this  land 
Where  you  have  to  learn  first-hand 

(Without  books  and  such,  to  teach) 
One  brand  from  another  brand. 

Having  nothing  much  to  lose, 
When  a  Sunday  come  around, 
WTe  would  squat  here  on  the  ground, 

Twenty  of  us  buckaroos,' 
Never  making  'ary  sound 

While  he  opened  up  the  ball, 
Singing  first,  then  praying  low, 
Like  them  little  winds  that  blow 

Sand  around  the  chaparral 
Kind  of  easy-like  and  slow. 

Seemed  to  us  just  like  a  game; 
You  play  this  and  I'll  play  that; 
Trail-to-Glory  standing  pat; 

Never  working  any  frame, 
Never  passing  round  the  hat: 


49 


Riders  of  the  Stars 

For  he  warn't  out  for  money,  pard, 
Had  his  job,  just  like  the  rest, 
Riding,  roping  with  the  best, 

Working  hard  and  sweating  hard, 
Waiting  for  that  Day  of  Rest. 

When  it  come  he  changed  his  clothes; 
Seemed  to  us  just  like  a  game, 
Staking  all  on  just  a  Name; 

Talking  quiet-like  to  those 
That  he  knew  he  could  n't  tame, 

Till,  one  day,  the  show-down  came. 

Swung  my  rope  and  lass'ed  a  steer; 
Hoss  he  bucked  and  I  got  piled. 
Steer  come  at  me  frothing  wild; 

Trail-to-Glory,  riding  near, 
Jumped  and  saved  me,  and  he  smiled. 

That  was  all  I  knew  a  spell  .  .  . 
Then  I  saw  the  boys  around 
Something  stretched  out  on  the  ground; 

'T  want  no  steer,  I  knew  right  well; 
Boys  a-making  nary  sound  — 

Yes;  that's  all  there  is  to  tell. 


YEABO'S  ADVENTURE 

THERE  was  no  other  trail  to  choose,  so  Yeabo,  boldly 

venturing, 
Struck  out  across  the  mesa  dim  beneath  the  budding 

star, 

And  twenty  happy  buckaroos,  with  wit  that  needed  cen 
suring, 

Retailed  the  joke  they  played  on  him,  foregathering  at 
the  bar. 

Yet  Romance,  ever  kind  to  those  who  know  not  ordered 

latitudes, 
But  follow,  wandering  where  she  calls  in  sun  or  wind  or 

rain, 
Smiled  as  he  told  the  world  his  woes,  histrionic  in  his 

attitudes, 

As  o'er  the  loom  of  Chance  she  drove  the  shuttle  back 
again. 

And  Yeabo,  he  became  her  knight  and  sported  strange 

habiliment; 
Cow-puncher  boots,  loud  spur  and  chaps,  brass-studded 

belt,  and  gun. 

And  found,  to  his  untold  delight,  that  fear  was  but  a  filament 
Beneath  such  trapping,  pose  or  wit,  but  known  to  every 
one. 

51 


Riders  of  the  Stars 

He  was  no  poet,  yet  beguiled  the  Muse  that  had  rare  charm 

for  him, 
And  set  his  pony's  feet  to  verse  robust  and  tinged  with 

red, 
While  bland  Euterpe  frowned  and  smiled  and  frowned,  but 

wished  no  harm  to  him 

Who  dared  the  heights  above  the  Lamp,  where  angels 
fear  to  tread. 

When  Love  threw  down  a  golden  gage,  in  sunny  land 

sequestering, 
Poor  Yeabo's  heart  was  in  his  boots  —  commingled  joy 

and  gloom, 

As  there  athwart  his  pilgrimage  with  Andalusian  gesturing 
The  immemorial  Eve  appeared,  bedecked  in  almond- 
bloom. 

Then  came  the  battle;  all  too  soon  the  range  reechoed, 

thundering, 
As  nimble  six-guns  leapt  and  spake  peremptorily  and 

loud; 

A  jest,  a  laugh  inopportune;  then  bickering  and  blundering 
That  launched  the  hate  as  lightning  leaps  from  cloud 
oppressing  cloud. 

Yet  naught  may  veil  the  sun  for  long;  and  Yeabo,  from  his 

pondering, 

Rose  valiant,  riding  many  a  mile  to  woo  in  concrete  guise 

52 


Yeabo's  Adventure 

The  Spanish  lady  of  his  choice,  the  dream-girl  of  his  wan 
dering, 

His  dusky  rose  with  slow,  sweet  smile  and  soft,  alluring 
eyes. 

He  married  her  and  settled  down;  Romance  and  Love  were 

kind  to  him; 
He  ceased  to  rope  the  running  steer  and  took  to  baling 

hay; 
Nor  Fame  nor  Fortune  cared  he  for,  and  they,  who  first 

were  blind  to  him, 
Ran  hand-in-hand  to  hunt  him  out,  down  Arizona  way. 


THE  SHEEP 

AN  undulating,  dusty  patch,  they  move 
Along  the  margin  of  the  canon  stream. 

Beside  the  herder  stand  the  watchful  dogs, 
With  ears  alert  and  eyes  that  read  his  face. 

He  sees  his  semblance  by  the  midday  sun 
Dwarfed  on  the  glaring  sand. 

The  sheep  move  on 

And  vanish  in  the  slumbrous  cedar  shade. 
The  drowsy  lizard  blinks  in  noon  elysium; 
A  bee  clings  to  the  nodding  mountain  flower 
Unfearful  o'er  the  sunlit  faery  vale 
Far,  far  below;  green  isles  of  tiny  trees 
Dappling  a  sea  of  palpitating  sand. 

Slow-paced  the  hours;  yet  swift  the  twilight  change; 

A  flare  of  opal  spaces  in  the  west, 

Shot  with  a  crimson  triumph.  Then,  the  night; 

Low  call  and  plaintive  answer,  till  the  sheep 

Lie  bedded  round  the  fire  —  and  Silence  dreams. 

Star  after  star  is  blotted  from  the  mask, 
And  quick,  cool  fingers  lift  the  wavering  veil 
That  hangs  above  the  canon's  dusky  brim. 

54 


The  Sheep 

The  morning  hills  awake  and  rise  to  view 
The  mesa-reaches  sprinkled  o'er  with  bloom; 
The  Shepherd  of  the  Dawn  has  loosed  his  flock 
Of  silvery  sheep  to  graze  celestial  pastures, 
While,  plunging,  rears  the  sun,  a  golden  ram 
Who  leaps  the  fiery  confines  of  his  fold 
Whereon  hang  curling  shreds  of  snowy  fleece 
Torn  from  his  eager  sides. 

The  canon  stream, 

Unruffled,  bears  the  aspect  of  the  sky; 
Filches  a  floating  cloud  that  drifts  across 
The  mirrored  foliage  twinkling  in  the  deep 
Cool  gardens  of  its  placid  underworld. 

The  dogs  are  up  and  out.  The  shuffling  flock 
Pours  from  the  bedding-ground,  and,  grazing,  wends 
Down  to  the  foot-worn  shallows. 

Against  the  blue 
Lone  on  the  height  the  shepherd  hums  a  song. 


EH,  JOHNNY-JO? 

JUST  turn  me  loose  on  them  hills  a  spell! 

Hear  the  rein-chains  jingle  and  saddle  creak? 
And  after  chuck,  that  there  pack-horse  bell 

'Way  off,  jing-janglin';  hear  it  speak? 
Say,  a  minute  of  that  is  worth  a  week 

In  town.  .  .  .     And  the  wind  is  driftin'  slow, 
A-pilin'  the  sand  round  the  chaparral 

And  them  dam'  coyotes  singin'  all 
Together. 

It's  great,  ain't  it,  Johnny-Jo? 

But,  whoa!  I  must  shine  up  my  langwidge  some, 
This  ain't  no  round-up;  this  here  is  verse 

That 's  a-lopin'  along  and  it 's  got  to  come, 
Like  the  parson  says,  "For  good  or  worse." 

So  I  '11  clamp  my  knees  and  just  let  her  hum. 

The  wind  of  the  dawn  has  swept  the  plains, 

And  the  sun  runs  over  the  purple  sage. 
Gone  is  the  wrack  of  the  winter  rains, 

Leaving  the  hills  like  a  faery  page 
Of  a  book  that  is  old,  but  is  ever  new, 

And  fresh  as  the  wild-flowers  sweet  with  dew  .  , 
Gosh !  I  'm  ridin'  close  to  the  fence  and  low, 

And  strainin'  my  buttins,  eh,  Johnny- Jo? 
56 


Eh,  Johnny- Jo? 

It  ain't  no  use  for  to  talk  like  that; 

It 's  second-hand  scenery  made  to  print. 
Just  hand  me  my  ole  gray  puncher  hat 

And  them  spurs  and  quirt;  do  you  get  the  hint? 
For  I  got  to  ride  easy  with  elbows  high, 

Mebby  not  style,  but  she  sure  has  go; 
We'll  all  git  to  Heaven  by-and-by, 

But  we'll  travel  outdoors;  eh,  Johnny- Jo? 


TOBY 

HAVE  you  ever  heard  a  fellow  talking  nonsense  to  a  hoss, 
When  he  'd  stopped  to  pull  a  cincha  tight  or  take  a  little 

rest? 
Have  you  ever  seen  that  same  cayuse  stand  looking  at  his 

boss 
With  eyes  that  seemed  to  say,  "I  like  you  best." 

Well,  my  bronco,  little  Toby,  he  had  eyes  that  talked  like 

that; 
We  got  pretty  well  acquainted;  understood  each  other 

right 

As  we  traveled  hills  and  mesas;  he  as  nimble  as  a  cat 
On  the  stiffest  trail  that  ever  came  in  sight. 

It  was:  "Toby,  come,  we'll  beat  it  to  the  reservation  line; 
Three  line-riders  over  yonder;  if  they  see  us  we're  in 

wrong  .  .  ." 
Then  the  pace  that  Toby'd  set  'em  o'er  the  grass  and 

through  the  pine, 
Made  the  wind  that  whistled  by  sound  like  a  song. 

In  the  camp  he  'd  browse  at  night  around  his  picket,  by  the 

fire; 

Stop  to  raise  his  head  and  watch  me  like  an  interested 
kid; 

58 


Toby 


In  the  morning  he  would  nicker;  seemed  to  say,  "Let's  take 

a  flyer, 

Let's  go  somewhere";   and  you  bet  your  boots,  we 
did. 

Just  how  much  that  hoss  could  sabe,  —  well,  I  can't  ex 
actly  say; 

But  I  told  him  once  of  Yuma,  the  cayuse  I  left  behind 
When  I  hit  the  dry  and  dusty  coming  Arizona  way; 

Told  him  she  was  just  another  of  his  kind. 

Well,  his  eyes  they  did  the  talking,  shining  big  and  round 

and  bright, 
Said  "I'd  like  to  meet  the  lady  with  the  blue  and  glassy 

eye; 

Never  been  in  California,  but  if  you  are  talking  right, 
She's  a  peach;  and  is  she  married?  Is  she  shy?" 

I  told  him  she  was  single,  fat  and  pinto,  —  kind  of  fair; 
Full  of  ginger  and  affection  that  got  badly  mixed  at 

times; 
That  she  never  frizzed  her  mane  or  brushed  her  teeth  or 

combed  her  hair, 
But  that  she  was  celebrated  in  some  rhymes. 

He  seemed  quite  interested;  and  her  Arizona  name 

Being  "Yuma"  set  him  thinking  that  my  she-cayuse  was 
great; 

59 


Riders  of  the  Stars 

But  he  never  showed  him  jealous,  being  wise  and  kind  and 

game, 
When  I  talked  about  our  California  state. 

But  since  then  he's  acted  offish  with  the  bosses  on  the 

range; 
Nothing  mean,  but  kind  of  proud-like;  kept  his  place  and 

stayed  away 
From  their  runs  and  fights  and  dinners;  mebby  now  you'll 

think  it  strange 
If  I  tell  you  what  I  heard  that  Toby  say 

To  the  mountain-bred  cayuses  when  they  dared  to  ask  him 

why; 
-,"Oh,"  said  Toby,  "pretty  weather,  just  like  California 

air; 

Must  excuse  me,  but  a  lady  with  a  blue  and  glassy  eye  — 
Boss's  friend  —  is  waiting  for  me,  over  there." 


THAT  INSIDE  SONG 

Bo,  it's  goin'  to  be  hot  all  right! 

Sun's  a-floodin'  the  eastern  range. 
Mebby  the  camp  was  some  cold  last  night, 

But  there 's  nothin'  like  havin'  a  little  change, 
Not  money  .  .  .  but  just  lots  of  room  for  me, 

Hills  and  mountains  and  plains  and  such, 
For  the  eyes  that  I  got  they  were  made  to  see, 

And  my  ears  to  hear,  but  they  don't  hear  much; 
Only  a  kind  of  a  inside  song, 

Like  when  the  grasshopper's  feelin'  glad, 
Singin',  "Rickety-click,  and  there's  nothin'  wrong!" 

And  —  after  the  coffee,  things  ain't  so  bad. 

The  wind  is  makin'  my  bed  for  me, 

Smoothin'  the  grass  where  I  'm  goin'  to  flop, 
When  the  quail  roosts  up  in  the  live-oak  tree, 

And  my  legs  feel  like  as  they  want  to  stop. 
Pal  or  no  pal  it 's  about  the  same, 

For  nobody  knows  how  you  feel  inside; 
Hittin'  the  grit  is  a  lonesome  game  — 

But  quit?  No  matter  how  hard  I  tried. 
Oh,  mebby  I  will  when  that  inside  song 

Quits  a-handin'  me  out  the  glad, 
Singin',  "Buckle-em-up,  for  there's  nothin'  wrong!" 

.  .  .  And  —  after  the  coffee  it  ain't  so  bad. 
61 


Riders  of  the  Stars 

Bo,  I '  ve  beat  it  from  Los  to  Maine, 

And  then,  not  knowin'  just  what  to  do, 
I  turned  and  slippered  it  back  again, 

Wantin'  to  see  —  just  the  same  as  you. 
Ridin'  rods  and  a-dodgin'  flys; 

Eatin'  at  times,  when  my  luck  was  good; 
Speilin'  the  con  to  the  easy  guys 

But  never  just  makin'  it  understood, 
Even  to  me,  why  that  inside  song 

Keeps  a-handin'  me  out  the  glad 
Singin',  "Ramble  along,  for  there's  nothin'  wrong!" 

.  .  .  And  —  after  the  coffee  things  ain't  so  bad. 


THE  OLD-TIMER 

MORNING  on  the  Malibu,  mist  across  the  ranges; 

Ponies   bucking   everywhere.      "Whoop!    and    let    'er 

buck ! 
Bud  is  standin'  on  his  head;  Bill  is  makin'  changes 

In  his  style  of  cussin'  and  he's  havin'  plenty  luck." 

"  When  it  comes  to  ridin'  broncs  —  listen  to  me,  stranger  — 
Takes  a  hoss  what  is  a  hoss  to  pile  your  Uncle  Jim; 

Whoa!  You  think  you're  goin'  to  dump  a  ole-time  Texas 

Ranger? 
Just  excuse  me  for  a  spell;  I'll  take  it  out  of  him. 

"Hump,  you  side  of  bacon,  you!  Spin  till  you  git  dizzy! 

I  could  roll  a  cigarette  while  you  are  doin'  such. 
Mebby  now  you  think  that  you  are  keepin'  me  right 

busy? 

Wrish't  I  had  my  knittin',  for  you  don't  amount  to 
much. 

"  As  I  was  sayin',  stranger  —  Whump !   Now,  ding  that 

pinto  devil! 
Gosh-and-what-goes-with-it,    but    he    piled    me    sure 

enough ; 

I  was  ridin'  on  the  square  and  now  I  'm  on  the  level ; 
Serves  me  right  for  talkin'  and  pertendin'  I  was  tough. 

63 


Riders  of  the  Stars 

"Ought  to  buy  a  rockin*  chair!  Git  a  pair  of  crutches! 

Hear  the  boys  a  joshin'  me  now  they  got  the  chance; 
Baldy's  diggin   angle-worms  with  his  nose!    Now  such  is 

Mighty  childish  joshin'  .  .  .     Say,  'fore  you  was  wearin' 
pants 

"I  was  ridin'  broncs  and  did  n't  have  to  pull  no  leather; 
Broncs  that  pawed  a  star  down  every  time  they  took  a 

jump. 
And  I  wern't  sixty-two  them  days;  I  didn't  feel  the 

weather; 
Give  me  forty  year  off  and  I  '11  lick  you  in  a  lump ! 

"Laugh,  you  mo vin '-picture  kids;  think  you're  punchin* 

•cattle? 

I  was  raised  in  Texas  where  a  steer  is  called  a  steer; 
I  have  done  some  ridin'  that  would  make  your  eye-teeth 

rattle; 
From  the  Tonto  to  Montana,  ridin'  range  for  forty  year. 

"  Guess  I  got  'em  thinkin'  now  —  thinkin'  strong  and  quiet, 
Mad  at  them  ?  Why,  stranger,  I  'm  a  ole-time  buckaroo, 

Don't  git  mad  at  nothin'.  .  .  If  they're  livin'  let  'em  try  it, 
Ridin'  range  and  ropin'  when  they're  turned  of  sixty- 
two." 


THE  FIGHTING  PARSON 

HE  was  a  right  good  man  —  a  parson,  too; 

Deep-chested,  tall,  and  straight.  He  had  an  eye 
You  could  n't  get  away  from;  kind  and  blue, 

And  wise  to  all  it  saw;  just  like  the  sky 

Out  here  in  Arizona,  —  always  clear, 

Or  mostly  clear.  Of  course,  sometimes  it  rained; 
But  if  the  fighting  parson  shed  a  tear, 

The  peace  he  lost,  some  other  fellow  gained. 

The  parson  sometimes  had  to  use  his  hands, 
And  save  his  wind  to  finish  up  a  fight. 

He  did  n't  just  stand  up  and  give  commands 
In  settling  what  was  wrong  and  what  was  right; 

He  backed  his  words  in  good  two-fisted  style, 
And  never  quit  until  the  job  was  done. 

Yes,  he  could  shoot  and  ride,  get  licked,  and  smile 
As  easy  after  as  when  he  begun. 

But  mighty  few  could  handle  him,  at  that; 

He  was  all  man  —  religion  it  came  next. 
If  talking  would  n't  do,  off  came  his  hat 

And  coat  —  and  then  his  double-barreled  text. 
65 


Riders  of  the  Stars 

Once  he  got  licked  —  the  only  time  I  know. 

It  kind  of  scared  us,  seeing  him  go  down, 
Dropped  by  a  lightning  smash  from  Placer  Joe 

Who  just  rode  in  to  salivate  the  town. 

"If  that's  the  best  you  got,"  said  Placer  Joe, 
"Go  rope  a  real  one  somewhere.'*  No  one  spoke 
Until  the  fighting  parson,  rising  slow, 

Brushed  off  his  clothes,  just  like  it  was  a  joke; 

"No,  not  the  best,"  he  said,  "and  not  the  worst; 

Perhaps  I  was  mistaken  in  my  plan; 
We  '11  try  again,  but  let  me  tell  you  first, 
You  have  n't  whipped  religion;  just  a  man. 

"What  if  I'm  whipped  again?  That's  not  the  end. 

What  if  you  kill  me  and  my  spirit  sped 
Up  to  my  Master?  Let  me  tell  you,  friend, 
He'll  send  as  good,  or  better,  in  my  stead." 

That  staggered  Joe.  He  had  n't  thought  of  that; 

And  something  seemed  to  kill  his  wish  to  fight. 
He  grinned  and  fumbled  foolish  with  his  hat, 

And  said,  "By  Gosh,  I  guess  the  parson's  right!" 

The  parson  was  n't  licked,  at  that,  but  hid 

The  knock-down  —  having  better  in  his  hand  .  .  . 

They  made  him  Bishop,  sir,  and  when  they  did, 
We  lost  the  finest  parson  in  the  land. 


ROMANCE 

No  more,  no  more  my  blithe  Romance 

Along  the  outland  trails  shall  dance; 

And  nevermore  in  sweet  surprise 

And  swift,  shall  she  make  glad  mine  eyes, 

Singing  along  the  harbor  slips 

With  coaxing  laughter  on  her  lips. 

No  more  the  joy  of  ranging  spars, 
The  stinging  drift,  the  wind-swept  stars, 
The  shouting  storm,  the  foam-flecked  sea 
Shall  thrill  the  weary  soul  of  me. 
No  more  the  flame  of  woodland  fires 
Shall  warm  my  heart  with  far  desires. 

Lost  mesa-reaches,  hills  of  night, 
Soft  Southern  eyes  with  love  alight 
And  longing;  lips  that  now  are  mute 
Once  singing  to  the  magic  lute; 
Lost  in  the  stealth  of  years,  and  fled, 
Leaving  their  silent  ghosts,  instead. 

The  thunder-roll,  the  blind  stampede; 
The  shout,  the  shot,  the  falling  steed  .  .  . 
Scarlet  serape,  silver  spur, 
Belt  and  sombrero  worn  for  her 
67 


Riders  of  the  Stars 

Loyally  —  for  my  goddess  who 
Replaced  the  laurel  with  the  rue. 

The  drifting  herd,  the  blinding  noon, 

Scant  cedar-shade  and  lazy  croon 

Of  Andalusian  cadence  old  .  .  . 

Dawn  —  and  the  valley  brimmed  with  gold! 

Mariana  —  and  the  dreamy  days 

Out  where  the  prairie  ponies  graze. 

Crouched  where  the  morning  sunlight  gleams, 
Gaunt  at  my  feet  my  wolf-dog  dreams; 
Yea !  and  I  dream  here,  lone,  forlorn, 
Who  once  in  red  adventure's  morn 
Wakened  with  Romance  at  my  side, 
To  touch  her  lips  —  long  since  denied. 

And  still  I  love  her,  ever  young, 
Youth  following  —  with  his  songs  unsung, 
Eyes  brave  with  hope,  heart  strong  and  pure, 
While  lissome  fingers,  beckoning,  lure  .  .  . 
Youth  following  where  her  steps  may  wend, 
Nor  dreaming  that  the  trail  must  end. 


I  KNEW  A  BOY 

I  KXEW  a  boy  who,  at  the  pasture  gate, 
Shouted  and  laughed  to  see  the  ponies  run; 

A  barefoot  urchin,  sturdy,  live,  elate, 

Who  rode  them  all  —  the  worst  and  best  —  for  fun. 

Was  tumbled  from  the  worst;  stuck  to  the  best 
And  loved  them;  yea!  nor  deemed  the  old  rail  fence 

A  barrier  to  dismount  for,  but  made  test; 
Aptly  the  soul  of  "Whither  going  hence?" 

Knew  not  nor  cared  no  more  than  did  his  steed, 
Unbitted,  playful-wild,  and  ne'er  in  hand, 

Till,  breathless,  in  the  pasture  mullein-weed 

They  stopped;  the  "Whoa!"  gratuitous  command. 

I  knew  a  boy  —  perchance  it  was  the  same, 

Though  time  had  wrought  its  certain  outward 
change  — 

Who  still  —  though  seldom  silent  —  played  the  game 
With  branding-iron  and  rope  on  Western  range. 

The  clean,  clear  tan  of  sun  upon  his  cheek, 
The  light  of  morning  in  his  laughing  eye; 

Seeking  adventure  to  the  farthest  peak, 
Or  watching  dream-led  cavalcades  go  by. 
69 


Riders  of  the  Stars 

Swiftly  the  golden  shuttle  of  the  dream 
Darted  across  the  loom  of  sunlit  hours, 

Till  Romance,  tiring  of  the  weaver's  beam, 
Vanished  among  the  nodding  prairie-flowers. 

The  high  trail  dwindled  in  the  sunset  glow, 
And  laughter  ceased;  instead  came  Reverie 

To  pace  beside  him,  silent,  wan,  and  slow, 
Until  his  wondering  eyes  beheld  the  sea. 

Sadly  he  watched  the  gray  gulls  dip  and  ride 
The  swollen  ridges  rushing  to  the  shore, 

Then  rise  to  wing  across  the  sounding  tide 

That  drummed  a  slow,  reiterant  "Nevermore.** 

Then  something,  that  had  slept  throughout  the  years 
Deep  in  his  heart,  awakened:  "Nay!  my  joy 

Shall  not  be  tarnished  by  these  futile  tears, 

Because**  —  he  laughed  —  "because  ...  I  knew  a 
boy.  .  .  .'* 


BRAVES  OF  THE  HUNT 

BRAVES!  that  go  out  with  your  guides  and  gold  and  the 

polished  tube  of  steel, 
Playing  safe  with  the  hunting-pack,  the  trap  and  the 

prism-glass; 
Slaying  the  Moose  or  the  Silver-tip,  e'en  as  you  pause  and 

kneel 

Loosing  the  power  that  ye  wield  for  shame.  ...     So  do 
our  monarchs  pass. 

Not  for  the  hunger  of  babes  ye  hunt;  for  mother  or  aged 

sire; 

Not  to  the  Red  Gods  offering  the  blood  of  your  lust  to  kill; 
Not  with  the  strength  of  your  brawn  and  thew  matching 

the  fury-fire 

Of  the  beast  that  fights  for  the  life  it  loves;  nay!  but  with 
sneaking  skill 

Ye  speed  the  sting  of  the  spreading  slug,  giving  your  lust  a 

name; 
Sport!  to  shatter  the  buoyant  life,  to  sever  the  silver 

thread! 
Then  ye  stand  with  a  gun  in  hand  grinning  your  pictured 

shame; 

"  See  at  my  feet  the  mighty  thing  that  I,  yea,  that  /  struck 
dead!" 

71 


Ricjers  of  the  Stars 

When  ye  have  toiled  on  the  foot-worn  trail  till  the  hunger- 
pinch  is  keen; 
When  ye  have  stood  as  a  man  with  men  earning  your 

wage  through  strife 
Of  the  outland  ways,  ye  have  fair  excuse  to  kill  —  an  the 

kill  be  clean; 

Then,  perchance,  will  the  vaunt  be  lost  in  fostering  life 
with  life. 

Sport !  to  slay  with  no  cause  to  slay  —  not  even  the  pride  of 

hate! 

Courage?  then  stand  to  an  even  chance,  facing  a  foe- 
man's  gun 

Out  in  the  open,  eye  to  eye,  for  Honor  of  Kin  or  State, 
Oh,  ye  who  slink  in  the  woven  blind  seeking  to  kill  —  for 
fun! 

Would  that  ye  lay  by  the  wounded  thing  that  crawls  to  the 

brush  to  die; 
Would  that  ye  knew  the  biting  pain  and  that  lingering 

thirst  of  hell, 
Writhing  down  to  the  darksome  pit  as  ye  vainly  implored 

the  sky, 

Asking  It  if  there  once  was  God  that  made  ye  and  loved 
ye  well! 

Perhaps,  when  the  Hand  that  fashioned  all  shall  strike,  and 
the  earth  be  dumb 

72 


Braves  of  the  Hunt 

Out  of  the  dim  and  the  voiceless  vast  —  back  to  their 

own  again  — 
Herd  and  band  and  the  mated  beasts,  fearless  and  free  shall 

come, 
Knowing  naught  of  the  ancient  fear  of  a  tribe  that  were 

named  as  men. 


THE  TRAIL-MAKERS 

NORTH  and  west  along  the  coast  among  the  misty  islands, 
Sullen  in  the  grip  of  night  and  smiling  in  the  day: 

Nunivak  and  Akutan,  with  Nome  against  the  highlands, 
On  we  drove  with  plated  prow  agleam  with  frozen  spray. 

Loud  we  sang  adventuring  and  lustily  we  jested; 

Quarreled,  fought,  and  then  forgot  the  taunt,  the  blow,  the 

jeers; 

Named  a  friend  and  clasped  a  hand  —  a  compact  sealed,  at 
tested; 

Shared  tobacco,  yarns,  and  drink,  and  planned  surpass 
ing  years. 

Then  —  the  snow  that  locked  the  trail  where  famine's 

shadow  followed 
Out  across  the  blinding  white  and  through  the  stabbing 

cold, 

Past  tents  along  the  tundra  over  faces  blotched  and  hol 
lowed; 

Toothless  mouths  that  babbled  foolish  songs  of  hidden 
gold. 

Wisdom,  lacking  sinews  for  the  toil,  gave  o'er  the  trying; 
Fools,  with  thews  of  iron,  blundered  on  and  won  the 
fight; 

74 


The  Trail-Makers 

Weaklings  drifted  homeward;  else  they  tarried  —  worse 

than  dying  — 

With  the  painted  lips  and  wastrels  on  the  edges  of  the 
night. 

Those  of  us  who  found  the  gold  we  followed  with  the  others, 
Dazzled  by  the  glamour  of  the  halls  and  women's  eyes; 

When  the  poke  was  empty,  then  we  borrowed  from  an 
other's, 
Till  a  grim  repentance  called  us  out  to  face  the  skies. 

Berries  of  the  saskatoon  were  ripening  and  falling; 

Flowers  decked  the  barren  with  its  timber  scant  and  low; 
All  along  the  river-trail  were  many  voices  calling, 

And  e'en  the  whimpering  Malemutes  they  heard  — 
and  whined  to  go. 

Eyelids  seared  with  fire  of  ice  and  frosted  parka-edges; 

Firelight  like  a  spray  of  blood  on  faces  lean  and  brown; 
Shifting  shadows  of  the  pines  across  our  loaded  sledges, 

And  far  behind  the  fading  trail,  the  lights  and  lure  of 
town. 

So  we  played  the  bitter  game  nor  asked  for  praise  or  pity: 
Wind  and  wolf  they  found  the  bones  that  blazed  out 

lonely  trails  .  .  . 

Where  a  dozen  shacks  were  set,  to-day  there  blooms  a  city; 
Now,  where  once  was  empty  blue,  there  pass  a  thousand 
sails. 

75 


Riders  of  the  Stars 

Scarce  a  peak  that  does  not  mark  the  grave  of  those  who 

perished 
Nameless,  lost  to  lips  of  men  who  followed,  gleaning 

fame 

From  the  soundless  triumph  of  adventurers  who  cherished 
Naught  above  the  glory  of  a  chance  to  play  the  game. 

Half  the  toil  —  and  we  had  won  to  wealth  in  other  station; 

Rusted  out  as  useless  ere  our  worth  was  tried  and  known, 
But  the  Hand  that  made  us  caught  us  up  and  hewed  a  na 
tion 

From  the  frozen  fastness  that  so  long  was  His  alone. 

Loud  we  sang  adventuring  and  lustily  we  jested; 

Quarreled,  fought,  and  then  forgot  the  taunt,  the  blow,  the 

jeers; 
Sinned  and  slaved  and  vanished  —  we,  the  giant-men  who 

wrested 

Truth  from  out  a  dream  wherein  we  planned  surpassing 
years. 


IDLE  NOON 

Do  you  remember  the  camp  we  made  as  we  nooned  on  the 

mesa-floor, 
Where  the  grass  rolled  down  like  a  running  sea  in  the 

wind  —  and  the  world  our  own? 
You  laughed  as  you  sat  in  the  cedar-shade  and  said  't  was 

the  ocean-shore 

Of  an  island  lost  in  the  wizardry  of  dreams  for  ourselves 
alone. 

Our  ponies  grazed  in  the  drowsy  noon,  unsaddled,  at  ease 

and  slow, 
And  the  ranges  dim  were  a  faery  land;  blue  hills  in  a  haze 

of  gray  .  .  . 
Hands  clasped  on  knee  you  hummed  a  tune,  a  melody  light 

and  low: 

Do  you  remember  the  venture  planned  in  jest  —  for 
your  heart  was  gay? 


"We'll  saddle  and  ride  to  the  unknown  end  of  the  long, 

long  trail  ahead  .  .  . 
Sun  and  wind  and  the  evening  star  and  the  flame  of  our 

evening  fire; 
Wherever  the  mesa-trail  may  wend  we'll  follow  and  find," 

you  said, 

"Haunted  hills  that  are  lost  afar  and  the  Valley  of 
Heart's  Desire." 

77 


Riders  of  the  Stars 

"  Ride  to  the  last  grim  canon  edge  and  rest  on  the  brim  of 

space; 

Find  a  trail  to  its  very  heart  that  only  the  eagles  know; 
Sing  as  we  round  the  riven  ledge  that  is  hewn  in  its  mighty 

face 

That  gazes  down  on  the  silver  strand  of  a  stream  and  the 
pines  below. 

"  Love  we  '11  leave  till  the  quest  is  o'er  and  live  in  a  magic 

land; 
Homeless,  free  as  the  fearless  wind  that  runs  o'er  the 

mountain  towers, 
And  the  upland  lake,  with  its  trackless  shore,  shall  mirror  a 

woman's  hand 

And  a  woman's  face  as  she  bends  to  bind  a  fillet  of  purple 
flowers." 

Thus  you  sang  as  the  ponies  grazed  through  the  heat  of  that 

idle  noon, 

While  you  dreamed  of  a  faeryland;  dreamed  till  the  sun 
set  fire 
Called  you  back  to  the  world,  amazed  that  the  journey 

should  end  so  soon, 

As  so  must  ever  a  venture  planned  to  the  Valley  of 
Heart's  Desire. 


THE  COWBOYS'   BALL 

(With  a  change  of  tune) 

Yip!  Yip!  Yip!  Yip!  tunin'  up  the  fiddle; 

You  an'  take  yo  'r  pardner  there,  standin'  by  the  wall ! 
Say  "How!"  make  a  bow,  and  sashay  down  the  middle; 

Shake  yo  'r  leg  lively  at  the  Cowboys'  Ball. 

Big  feet,  little  feet,  all  the  feet  a-clickin'; 

Everybody  happy  and  the  goose  a-hangin'  high; 
Lope,  trot,  hit  the  spot,  like  a  colt  a-kickin'; 

Keep  a  stompin'  leather  while  you  got  one  eye. 

Yah !  Hoo !  Larry !  would  you  watch  his  wings  a-floppin', 
Jumpin'  like  a  chicken  that  is  lookin'  for  its  head; 

Hi!  Yip!  Never  slip,  and  never  think  of  stoppin', 
Just  keep  yo'r  feet  a-movin'  till  we  all  drop  dead! 

High  heels,  low  heels,  moccasins  and  slippers; 

Real  ole  rally  'round  the  dipper  and  the  keg! 
Uncle  Ed's  gettin'  red  —  had  too  many  dippers; 

Better  get  him  hobbled  or  he  '11  break  his  leg ! 

Yip!  Yip!  Yip!  Yip!  tunin9  up  the  fiddle; 

Pass  him  up  another  for  his  arm  is  gettin'  slow. 
Bow  down!  right  in  town  —  and  sashay  down  the  middle; 

Got  to  keep  a-movin'  for  to  see  the  show! 

79 


Riders  of  the  Stars 

Yes,  mam!  Warm,  mam?  Want  to  rest  a  minute? 

Like  to  get  a  breath  of  air  lookin'  at  the  stars? 
All  right!  Fine  night.  —  Dance?  There's  nothin'  in  it! 

That 's  my  pony  there,  peekin'  through  the  bars. 

Bronc,  mam?  No,  mam!  Gentle  as  a  kitten! 

Here,  boy !  Shake  a  hand !   Now,  mam,  you  can  see ; 
Night 's  cool.  What  a  fool  to  dance,  instead  of  sittin' 

Like  a  gent  and  lady,  same  as  you  and  me. 

Yip!  Yip!  Yip!  Yip!  tunirf  up  the  fiddle; 

Well,  them  as  likes  the  exercise  sure  can  have  it  all! 
Right  wing,  lady  swing,  and  sashay  down  the  middle  .  .  . 

But  this  beats  dancin'  at  the  Cowboys'  Ball. 


PEARL  OF  THE  ATOLLS 

Where  coral  atolls  glimmered  in  the  sun; 

Where  the  slow  sea  gave  back  our  weary  sails, 
We  came  to  anchor.  Long  had  been  the  run 

And  welcome  was  the  rest  from  ocean-trails. 

Like  a  lone  sea-bird  in  the  blue  lagoon, 
Our  schooner  idle  swung,  while  overside, 

Long,  broken  masts  lay  wavering  in  a  moon 
Of  moving  silver  mirrored  on  the  tide. 

The  woven  hut  that  fronted  on  the  sand; 

The  crimson  parakeets,  the  languorous  fronds; 
The  laughter  of  the  girh  as  hand-in-hand 

They  ran  to  bathe  among  the  lily-ponds. 

We  bartered  with  the  natives  for  their  pearls, 
And  gained  them  all  save  one  dark  pearl  alone, 

Jewel  among  those  dusky  village  girls; 

Pearl  of  the  atolls,  love  had  made  mine  own. 

When  fortune  turned  those  golden  days  to  gold, 
Lost  voices  called  across  the  flickering  foam; 

Again  adown  the  trails  our  schooner  rolled. 
Back  to  the  ancient  harbor  we  called  home. 
81 


Pearl  of  the  Atolls 

Home?  Years  again  we  sought  that  magic  shore, 
With  wide  sea-wings  alert  for  every  breeze, 

But  vanished  was  our  island-dream  of  yore, 
Lost  in  the  wide  and  unremembering  seas. 

Oh,  magic  island,  where,  oh,  where  are  ye? 

Sweet  laughter,  alien  song  and  voices  sweet  ? 
Pearl  of  the  atolls,  rise  from  out  the  sea 

That  answers  not  —  and  make  the  dream  complete! 


CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U    .    S    .   A 


ijj-fcr-  -  STA-w**          

OVERDUE. 


YB  76784 


3579o,i 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 


